Page 21 of Desire's Ransom
He abruptly lowered his sword. “Had enough?”
“Are ye jestin’?” she scoffed.
“I’ve driven you halfway back already,” he reasoned. “You may as well surrender.”
Was that what he thought? She arched a brow. “Never. Besides, Iletye drive me back.”
He narrowed quizzical eyes at her. Then his face blossomed into the most unexpected and brilliant smile she’d ever seen. His teeth gleamed white, and his eyes sparkled with amusement. “Is that so?”
“Aye,” she told him, though her thoughts were so scattered by his charming grin that she could hardly think straight. “I haven’t even begun to fight.”
Suddenly, his chuckle filled the air, as rich and warm as sunshine after a spring shower. He shook his head. “I hope you know how to swim, lad.”
Of course she knew how to swim. Like a fish. But she wouldn’t need to. She had no intention of letting him push her off the log.
She braced her feet and raised herbataas the thrill of impending victory filled her veins.
He flipped the haft of his sword once within his palm. Where he gripped the hilt, she could see his knuckles bore the scars of battle. He was clearly no stranger to warfare.
But he’d also clearly never fought an Irish outlaw with abatabefore. If he had, he would have realized he’d be better off discarding his heavy sword and using his quicker fists…or his dazzling smile.
Ryland hadn’t been this entertained in a long time.
He’d assumed conquering the lad would be easy, like swatting a pesky fly out of the way.
But this fly was more crafty and clever than he’d anticipated.
Though he hated to admit it, back in England, Ryland had grown weary of battling the same knights, day after day. He’d tired of the tournaments, where every opponent’s strengths and flaws were known to him. He might not be—as Warin claimed—“the most glorious, noble, and upstanding knight in all of England.” But he had yet to meet the man he couldn’t defeat.
This, however—fighting against a foreigner wielding a strange weapon—added a whole new challenge. Despite his intention to reach the O’Keeffe lands and get on with his business, Ryland suddenly looked forward to waging war with this unpredictable opponent.
He’d be cautious, of course. This land would soon belong to him. While it was wise to make his leadership felt, there was no need to be heavy-handed about it. Like the land, the lad had a lively, if somewhat swaggering, spirit. There was no point in crushing it.
“Come on then,” Ryland urged with a smirk, bracing his feet on the log and holding his blade aloft. “See if you can cut my sword in two with your stick.”
The lad wasted no time. But he didn’t aim for Ryland’s sword. Instead, he feinted forward with the narrower end of the stick, retracted it, and then flipped it suddenly backward, rapping Ryland’s sore ribs again with the knobbed end.
Ryland grimaced and took a step back, forcing the lad to keep his distance by lashing the space between them with his blade.
The second sweep of his sword came within inches of the stick. But before he could return with a third slash that would cleave the weapon in half, it slipped around to his unguarded side and smacked him in the neck.
Peeved at his own error in judgment, Ryland shook off the clout with a curse and braced himself to attempt another charge.
This time he stabbed straight forward. If the lad hadn’t quickly leaped back, the point might have scratched his belly. But with an inch to spare, the youth dodged the stroke. Before Ryland could return from his lunge, the lad used one arm to knock Ryland’s blade straight up and jabbed the stick forward with the other.
The knobbed end punched Ryland’s stomach with breath-stealing force. If not for his leather armor, he would have been folded in half from the blow.
“Had enough, English?” the lad mocked, lowering his weapon as if he had no fear whatsoever of Ryland’s much bigger, heavier sword.
But Ryland wasn’t about to surrender to a puny Irish outlaw, just because he carried a big stick.
“Just warming up,” he retorted.
He realized now the lad was capable of lightning-fast strikes. Ryland would have been better off with a cudgel, which would have afforded him a quicker, more responsive defense.
But while he was busy realizing this, the lad, using his stick in one hand like a lance, thrust low with it, catching Ryland’s ankle and nearly tripping him.
Ryland staggered a step, flapping his arms, and barely managed to keep from falling off the log.
